Time goes by agonizingly slowly during the drive. My entire body is vibrating and I don’t know if that’s from the nerves or the bass of “Int’l Player’s Anthem” pumping through my dad’s speakers. My father refuses to listen to the latest UGK album, still upset at the death of Pimp C two years ago, so I’m not surprised to hear the Underground Kingz album blasting now. I don’t think my father is loyal to a single person on this planet, but he is very loyal to the city of Houston and all that comes with it. After all, Houston is where he was last happy. Austin was nothing but an attempt to run from the pain.

I lean my head against the barely legal tinted windows and study the roads as they whip past my face. Browns and greens transition into steel-grays and whites. After what feels like an hour, we pull into the parking lot of Planned Parenthood. When he gets out of the car, I take a minute to take a deep breath before joining him. He ushers me past the sea of idiot protestors waving their pitchforks and torches in the shape of signs and pamphlets admonishing those who would step foot in this building into the cool lobby.

I fill out the paperwork I’m given, and when a tear falls from my eye to the sheet of paper, I’m not surprised but still hurt that Dad doesn’t even attempt to console me. I walked in here a young woman who had chosen the path of motherhood, but one hour later, I’m walking out a brokenhearted girl who just wanted her father to finally choose her over himself and his grief. But of course, he didn’t.

This time, I don’t even hear the cries of the protestors when we leave. The shrill cries of their voices feel so distant and hazy. I’m unaware of anything as we make our way back to campus. I can vaguely hear the bump of the speakers and I can vaguely make out the passing scenery, but it all feels like I’m experiencing it from outside of my body. I like this feeling. This feeling of being here but not really here—it keeps the aching burn of my grief at bay.

There’s no fanfare when he rolls up to my building. There are no words of comfort nor words of malice, just a simple “have a good weekend” before I’m left to trudge my way up to my third floor dorm room.

Monet isn’t here when I walk in, probably off somewhere with our teammates, and I’m relieved because I don’t have it in me to talk about everything that’s happened. I collapse into bed and let the world fade away.